Under Siege (Wingmen Warriors 3)

It had to be the hormones, because crying wasn't her style. She sniffled, willing away the blue cloud threatening to rain tears on Patrick's special day. Her son deserved a happy welcome, not one full of mourning.

She would think of her husband later. In the darkened quiet of her own home, she would allow herself to imagine what this day could have been like with Lance beside her. A fleeting image of him whispered through anyway, so handsome and blond, wearing his flight suit and best playful grin.

At least she had his baby.

Julia skimmed a kiss along the white knit cap covering Patrick's head and snuggled him closer to her chest, his butter-soft cheek precious against her skin. She resolved to concentrate on blessings, and the baby in her arms was undoubtedly her greatest blessing.

A stubborn, non-nursing, snoozing blessing.

Two quick knocks sounded at the door, replacing her urge to cry with a welcome swell of relief. Julia readjusted her loosened pajama top over Patrick's head so she wouldn't be exposed to any hallway passersby, but didn't button it. Why bother when she would only have to unbutton it again in minutes? "Come in."

The door opened.

But not to Susan from the breastfeeding support group.

A tall, flight-suit-clad body filled the doorway. For a funky, time-fugue kind of moment, Julia thought her husband stood in front of her after all. Her breath snagged on an ache so powerful it stole the air from her room.

Eight months faded to a time of promise for a fresh start with a baby. That new beginning for her marriage had ended the day she'd pulled into her driveway after work to find every military wife's worst nightmare. An ominous, uniformed trio of chaplain, doctor and commander had waited on her front porch. She'd known before being told by the Squadron Commander.

Her husband would never come home.

The commander. Reality dispersed her dreams like bubbles hitching a ride on an afternoon breeze.

The superimposed image of Lance faded, Squadron Commander Zach Dawson easing into focus. His rangy body towered until his head just missed brushing the doorway.

How could she have mistaken the two men for even a second? The shorter Lance had been built more like a wrestler as opposed to the commander's lean runner's frame.

No, he wasn't Lance. But he was here and in her doorway for a visit. Time to piece together some composure and quit gawking at the man before she proved once again what a flop she was at being a reserved Air Force wife. No surprise, since she'd never fit the white-glove mold from day one. Those barefoot childhood years in the commune had left their indelible stamp on her.

"Hello, Colonel," she said, dropping the lieutenant part of his rank as protocol demanded in conversation, just another inexplicable quirk of military lingo. They may have developed a surprising friendship over the last few months, but even so, protocol stood.

He cleared his throat, but didn't move. The normally confident man hesitated. "Sorry.

Didn't mean to interrupt the baby's, uh, eating."

A tingle of realization prickled at her scalp.

Uh-oh. Worse than barefoot, she'd forgotten she was also too darn close to being bare-breasted.

Heat crawled all the way from her toes straight up over her half-covered chest to her nose. Thank goodness Patrick's snoozing face covered as much as any bathing suit. "He's just sleeping, not eating, I mean not yet anyway."

The commander's gaze darted everywhere around the room—everywhere she wasn't. "I can come back later."

Julia stifled the urge to shout a resounding acceptance of his offer to hightail it to the nearest elevator. Women breastfed in public every day, after all. "Don't go. Just give me a second to..." Get dressed? Put away her breasts? "Just give me a second."

"Sure, no problem." He turned, his profile backlit by the fluorescent glow from the hall.

The hard angles of his face shadowed forbiddingly, another difference from Lance. Her husband had been light-hearted, easygoing—and so blasted good-looking some had labeled him downright pretty.

No one would ever dare call Zach Dawson pretty.

Rugged. Magnetic. Starkly attractive like the no-nonsense Texas desert he hailed from.

But never pretty.

Julia jerked her gaze away. The poor guy would fall asleep standing in her doorway if she didn't stop daydreaming. She secured the last button and cradled Patrick in her arms. "All set. Sorry about that."